TO BAKE A CAKE: INFINITE PLEASURES

Where do you want me to start? he asks.

Why don't you start where it all starts? I suggest. Start at the beginning.

Okay, he says, and closes his eyes. He inhales deeply and, when he speaks, it is with a rush of air; it as if his words had been buried in his midsection and he needs to blow them out to face the world. His is an exercise in excavation, the syllables buried deep in the gritty dirt of Misuse. When he speaks, the words tumble and shimmy; the words flow from his mouth and drop with a splat on the table between us.

The Cooking Channel is where it's at, he begins. Onions, rutabagas, quiches, Jell-O molds. Knives--sharp with spite--mixing bowls, the creamy spin of egg whites, avocados. He looks at me, eyebrows raised, as if to see if I follow.

I nod briefly.

I started watching the Cooking Channel every day, he continues. At first I would just watch that one show with that cute little burnette thing? But, after about a week, my one half-hour show just didn't cut it. I loved watching Rachael, sure, but I needed more, you know? So I started watching while I ate and then the show just after my meal. I knew that I might be getting in over my head, but it just didn't seem to matter, you know? He looks at me; he appeals to my magnanimity.

I nod briefly and gesture with my index finger. Roll it. Keep it going.

He eyes the micro-recorder on the table and shrugs and cracks his knuckles and opens his mouth, lets the words tumble: I had an uncle who was an alcoholic. Big surprise, huh? It's a cliche, almost: the drunk uncle. He died--chirrosis. But, he was my uncle and, yeah, he was a drunk. His drink was rum and Coke. I think that he liked the spiced stuff. Whatever. So I know addiction. My Dad and my Mom smoked and my sister smoked unfiltered Pall Malls for 20 years before she quit. She's all yellow and shit, now. So, addiction is what I know and I knew that I was getting addicted, but I didn't give a damn. First it was that Rachael show and then a show while I ate my dinner--usually shitty frozen dinners; the irony, eh?--but then I had to watch the show after my dinner and then, shit, then it was constant. I was watching that damned food channel every hour of the day, 'cept for when I was sleeping and when I was at work. And then work began to suffer.

I raise my eyebrows. I roll my finger.

He chuckles a little self-consciously. I know, I know, he says. Missing work because of an addiction to food shows. But, it is what it is. I couldn't tear away. I started to use sick days and vacation days and when I was at work, my bosses and my co-workers would kinda give a wide berth and that sideways glance, you know? That look that says, I don't know about you, dude. Something's up. Just look the other way when you come in here with your AK, looking to settle the score or shoot up the joint. That look. I'd lost their trust; I can't say that I blamed them for thinking those thoughts. When I was at work, instead of working the press the way I used to, I'd be standing there, daydreaming about lemon meringue pie or stuffed crawdaddies, or something. It was dangerous, is what it was. Those presses have about 3000 pounds coming down to flatten those sheets...I was daydreaming and it is actually a wonder that I didn't smoosh anybody. And all because I needed my Cooking Channel fix. He trails off and studies the table.

I prod; I poke. There is much more in there, I know. But I need him to tell it to me. So...tell me about when you started to voice your obsessions at work.

He laughs without mirth. Yeah. Voice my obsessions. I like that. That's good. Well, shit, when I started to babble, that's when it all went downhill. And fast. He leans back in his chair--the front two legs of the plastic chair are off the floor--and he laces his hands behind his head. He stares at a spot above my head, bores a hole through the wall.

I wait for him; I sip some of my cold bitter coffee and I wait for him.

Fuck it, he murmurs, and with a bang, his chair is back flat on the floor and his hands are folded on the table and the holes his eyes are boring, now, are directly into my own. I didn't mean for it to happen this way, he says. Maybe I did. He shrugs unself-consciously. I didn't start out wanting anybody to get hurt. I just got...I got carried away. I got took.

Tell me about the birthday cake, I say.

His eyes light up and then the brilliance fades. Yeah. The birthday cake. Huh. They make it look so easy on the TV, you know? Especially that Rachael Ray bitch. She's all laughing and jiving and cracking jokes and shit.... Anyway, my productivity at work had been going to shit. At work, we have this quota that we have to meet each day? 75 units?

I nod.

Well, I used to be able to look cross-eyed at the presses and get 75. Some days, shit, some days I'd have 75 before lunch. Once the Cooking Channel got its claws in me, though? Oh boy, once the Cooking Channel got ahold of me, I was lucky to get 45, 50, for the day. My supers were getting pissed at me, I'll tell you. And--he looks embarrassed, here--and, my God, my mouth. I couldn't stop talking about food! I'd be reciting the recipe of potatoes au gratin to Lomis, or going on and on about the virtues of spinach salads to Ruthie, instead of doing my job. Co-workers were getting pissed at me. They started calling me Betty Boy and Floppin Chop and Spatula...man, the names got bad. But. I couldn't help it! I needed to talk about my food lust. I had to! Otherwise, I would've went nuts. He looks around the room, takes in the industrial green walls and barred window glass, and barks a quick laugh. Yeah. Go insane. Sure. I've gone, ain't I?

I say nothing; I make a show of jotting down an important note on my chart. I look up and he is staring at that spot above my head again.

The cake is where I went wrong. I should have used the Gold Medal flour instead of the shit brand that I used. It was Ruthie's birthday; she was 52, or something. God damn, she looked 72. Saggy, wrinkled, dark eyes...back fat...her eyes were dead, man. I actually wanted to cheer her up, on her birthday. So I baked a fucking cake. His eyes widen. That cake was supposed to be the golden lamb, man! It was supposed to bring me back into the fold! I slaved over that fucking cake. He lowers his voice. And nobody gave a good god damn. Nobody gave a shit, man.

I nod with commiseration.

But, do you see what I mean, Doctor? I wanted to please them. I wanted to get back with them. Get in their good graces. The name-calling hurt me, sure, but I didn't want to hurt them. Ricky Theron didn't want to hurt them. It was the other part of Ricky that wanted to...well, you know.

I nod.

So I--he--put arsenic in the batter. Where he got it, I don't know. It's kinda like a blank spot in the memory, you know?

A fugue state? I offer.

Sure, he says. Whatever. I just know that I had no intention of baking a fucking chocolate cake laced with poison. Arsenic. Arsenic! Isn't that some Agatha Christie shit?

I shake my head, shrug. It's a common-enough poison, I guess, I say, if one knows where to look.

Nobody from my shift ate the cake, he continues. Nobody. They just looked at it and laughed and jibed me with Betty Crocker and Flour Boy. It was a resounding failure. Is that what people say, Doctor? Resounding failure?

Usually people say either "resounding success" or "dismal failure," I say. But it really doesn't matter, Ricky, I knew what you meant.

Okay, he says, so no one from my shift eats the cake and I'm--he, me, whatever--we're thinking to myself, take the cake and throw it away and get control of yourself and get some help and do it right-quick. Oh, but shit, Doc, I think it had went too far, man. I--we--wanted to see someone eat that cake. They make eating the food look so damned fun on the TV, you know?

I don't nod. I wait.

Some guy from the third shift ended up eating two pieces of the cake. I don't even know who he is...was...still don't actually. Some Harold Kootz guy? Harvey? Don't know. Yeah. Two pieces. We'd loaded that fucking cake with the A-Bomb, man. Two bites would have been enough to hurt someone. Maybe even kill. I don't know, Doctor, I'm all fucked up in the head. I maybe wanted to kill? I maybe wanted to make the others feel the hurt that I felt, feel? I didn't even know this guy, though. And I heard that he's got, like, two kids and another on the way and he only took that shift so that he could get the Overnight Premium and I feel like a fucking killer and I guess that I am but I never wanted--or did I?--it to go down like this, man. I didn't. He studies his hands, clasped on the tabletop.

I snap off the recorder. I'll be back, I say, folding my glasses and rising from the chair. I'll be back; just take it easy while I'm gone and I'll be back with some nice cold water for you, okay?

His eyes are over my head again, looking at the interdepartmental TV monitor. Do you guys, like, get cable on that? Emeril is gonna be on soon.